Mistress of Shadows
Chapter Two: As If Waving Farewell
Written by Elluxion


*sighs wearily* DRAFT NUMBER NINE... I haven't even the energy to read through and edit... I apologize if it's rather poorly written, I just didn't have the heart to go on to Draft Ten...

Basically if you read this, I'd really, -really- love for you to tell me what you think of Echidna... I'm rather proud of her and she'll be playing a rather pivotal role in the chapters to come. If you don't like her, do tell me why don't you like her. ^^ Thank you!


There was just something about the destroyed village of Hogsmeade that Echidna liked.

She watched the wizards and witches of the Resurrection Squad through lowered eyelashes and fallen raven bangs that swung in front of her face, crouching with one leg curled under her so she could spring up easily when need required. Echidna Islet was half-hidden in the haphazard remains of the Hog's Head, hunkered down under what remained of the counter. One wall of the dilapidated pub was still standing, though partially scorched; the other three walls were ashes caught in the fingers of the wind.

Above Echidna's head was an evening sky of brilliant blue; the newly fallen night was still laced with vestiges of summer day. The horizon glowed with the insistency of a sun that refused to set, and it was towards that luminescence Echidna kept cutting her eyes to. Sunlight could neither harm nor kill a vampire, but it irritated one's skin and lowered the clarity of one's vision.

Echidna returned to watching the men who stood chatting idly only a few feet away. One was a well-muscled young man with burns on his tanned arms and hands—she'd already learned that his name was Charlie, and that he was a dragonrider. Though Echidna was a predator, she respected the undefeatable strength of the dragons of lore; anyone who could harness that power deserved her respect as well. Charlie was not on her list of victims, but the other wizard certainly was. A younger man with a pale, thin face and a perpetual sneer: he annoyed her immensely with the way he kept ordering Charlie to do things he could have done just as well himself.

The vampiress's skin prickled thrillingly; the glow of the sun on horizon extinguished with a defeated sigh only Echidna could hear. Night was upon them.

She was ready to hunt.

The cinders of Hogsmeade were ideal hunting grounds. Certainly Echidna shared the grounds with other vampires and phantoms of darkness, but the wizarding village spanned large enough so that they didn't have to kill each other to get their required forms of nourishment. There were countless witches and wizards, all eager to repair the derelict town, enough so that organization was messy and the absence of a few was surmised to the fact that they'd headed home early. When their bloodless bodies were stumbled upon the next day, Echidna would be far away by then, taking shelter in what those humans referred to as the 'severely haunted' Shrieking Shack.

The pale-faced wizard pointed at a bucketful of wild flames that danced upon the still-standing roof of a clothing store; with a set look to his jaw and eyes, the dragonrider hitched up his robes and began making for the ruins of the store, wand already in hand.

Echidna rose gracefully from the counter, taking her time, walking out with a measured pace as if inspecting the damage around her. She tugged at the purposely-ripped robes she wore that exposed a fair amount of skin and showed her long legs to great advantage, drawing the attention of the wizard whom the dragonrider had left behind. Hips swaying enticingly, lips pursed in a helpless almost-pout, she paused in front of the man.

"Good evening, miss," he said admiringly, drinking in the well-known vampire beauty, not noticing that Echidna's skin tone matched that of clouds. "How may I help you?"

"Good evening, sir." Echidna smiled back. "As you can tell…" she gestured to her robes, "I've just been attacked by some sort of Dark creature, and since you look like a skilled wizard, I would truly appreciate your help in exterminating it. Could you aid me?" She twined every syllable around the wizard, sounding out all the letters in an elusive lilt, lowering his defenses, bringing his guard down. Vampire song, some called it, and Echidna came from a long line of songstresses.

She led the obliging wizard to a more desolate landsite that was littered by bits of metal, wood, and glass. Along the way, the sneering young man flirted outrageously with her, questioned gently what a breathtaking lady like herself was doing in such a dangerous place like this, and she had him so around her little finger that if she'd commanded him to leap of a cliff, he would have done so, and smiling while he fell.

Echidna gave a soft, satisfied sigh as she sank her fangs into the man's neck. He didn't flail, nor struggle, but melted into her tender embrace as if he'd been born to do so. His blood tasted indescribably sweet, power surging through Echidna with every breath she drew; it was obvious that he was from a pure wizarding bloodline. She drained him alive, and he was still breathing when she lifted her head from his neck. Biting down on a smirk, Echidna bent to give the wizard his concluding kiss, and held it long enough so that she captured his final breath.

~*~

She sat drinking in the beauty of the verdant countryside that fell away from one side of her; smiling softly in remembrance of the number of times she'd admired the lush green landscapes. The train trundled on, rattling on the well-worn tracks, and she was at one with its lullaby.

"Look, Min," Ginny Weasley whispered to her, green eyes gleaming brilliantly in the cold moonlight. "It's your final glimpse of Hogwarts."

Hermione Granger turned in time to see the magnificent castle placidly cresting a hill, every turret and tower sharply outlined by starlight, silhouetted against the rising moon. It twinkled merrily at her in all its pleasing, warm beauty, as if waving farewell to the girl it had known for seven years of her life.

The Hogwarts Express swept around a bend and it was gone.

She turned back: mood dampened slightly, face sobered. This year, Dumbledore had insisted they left directly after the Hogwarts Graduation Ball, to remember their final night at the school they had known and loved for so long. It felt like one of those Muggle fairytales—Cinderella, leaving the ball in glass slippers and fancy gown, her heart brimming with bittersweet and conflicted emotions.

The future frightened her considerably. She didn't know what was to come next; everything was pressing in on her at once. Her parents' expectations, for one thing. Her teachers' beliefs that she would excel in whatever field she decided to participate in. The school she left behind; as Hogwarts' Head Girl and Valedictorian, her younger peers who would be looking to her as an example. Her friends, who expected her to accomplish all that and yet still be there for them when they needed her. Sometimes it was too much, all the stress and pressure. Sometimes she felt like she was cracking at the seams, like if one extra blow was dealt to her, she would disintegrate into pieces and fall, and no one would catch her, because she was always catching someone else.

Hermione sighed; she could still handle all those; she was stronger than what the surface suggested. Yet as Dumbledore's speech drifted into her mind, bits of flotsam and jetsam amid the sea of worries, something else took center stage on her anxieties.

'This year has not been an easy one. I am talking of the war that occurred last year, and I speak to all those who have participated in it. Many have lost their loved ones, or perhaps a small part of themselves. Some found a legacy that has been hidden to them a long time.' Dumbledore's eyes had fallen and locked onto Hermione's. 'I would like to remind them that should they need help in any form, in coming to acceptance with this new power, we are always open to you.'

Hermione's inward smile was wry. Could they? Could they understand the difficulty of forging on by yourself with nothing to help you? Could they understand Hermione's ability to channel raw power from the Ether, the magical tapestry wizards and witches drew from with their wands? Could they comprehend Hermione being able to twist the elements to her control? Could they realize that Hermione was able to sense magical artifacts at close range, Animagus or anyone under the Imperius Curse by merely the disturbance in the Ether? Could they appreciate that Hermione was dealing with all this, on top of everything else?

Ginny dozed off, her head in Harry Potter's lap. Harry was absently consuming a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, eyes blinking owlishly from behind his glasses. His eyes were fixed unseeingly on the flashing scenery in the adjacent window of the train; Hermione was rather certain he didn't taste the Beans at all, as he picked up a suspiciously nasty-looking dark-green one and popped it into his mouth with hardly a grimace. She supposed that he was thinking along the same lines she was.

Now a solemn-eyed lad of seventeen, with newfound maturity radiating from him, Harry may have lost the thirst for childish risks and adventures, and perhaps his innocence as well—he'd seen too much to be naïve any longer—but in doing so, Hermione knew that he'd found himself, and for the first time in seventeen years, was at peace with who and what he was. She watched as with a sigh, Harry put down the bag and began playing with Ginny's hair, hands combing out loose tangles and skillfully working out the knots, running through every strand. It was a familiar sight: Ginny with her head nestled in Harry's lap, and Harry straightening her hair for her. Hermione wondered how many times they'd done that while chatting in front of the fireplace.

Ginny herself was probably the best looking of the four, though Harry and Ron had both been awfully sought-after at Hogwarts. With a fierce, falcon-like beauty, emerald eyes that burned with unquenchable fire, and shoulder-length, flaming hair, Ginny's self-assured personality and unshakable confidence shone through every fiber of her being. (Not to mention an admirable figure from being a Quidditch Beater, Hermione thought with a playfully jealous pang.) Yet there was a frailty to those steady green eyes: Ginny loved with passion, and too easily. It was all too easy to snatch from her her heart and shatter it into millions of forlorn pieces.

She had taken the seventh-years' train because she had to leave early. In one of Fleur's visits to Hogwarts, she'd rather unexpectedly taken a shine to Ginny, and had introduced the Beauxbatons-Hogwarts exchange program to the Gryffindor. Ginny had jumped at the chance to be at Beauxbatons, France, for a year, learning and living with Fleur Delacour, who assisted Madam Maxime in administrative work.

Hermione certainly knew someone who would miss having the impish sixth-year around. Wryly, she brought to mind the uncountable times Ron Weasley had groaned about his sister visiting in some foreign country, and the uncountable times she had to calm his hysterical fears. Ginny was, to Ron, irreplaceably precious, especially after Bill's death.

He lay slumbering in one corner, snoring lightly; his long, lanky form draped casually over plush seats meant for three, legs dangling a few inches from the carriage floor. Graced with boyish blue eyes that were unfaltering as Ginny's and (to the giggling Lavender and Pavarti) a rather sexy tousled head of red hair that was nearly as unruly as Harry's, Hermione privately agreed with Lavender's and Pavarti's deduction that Ron was one of the more desirable fellows schooling at Hogwarts. There was just an arrestingly fresh-faced lilt to his features. Years as a Prefect had instilled in him the necessity of shouldering responsibility; in the Last Battle—Hermione's stomach lurched just thinking about it—he'd proven to be a selfless comrade, risking his life and in turn recovering many others.

They'd all changed, and for the better, yet Hermione privately thought at times that the price they paid—lost innocence—was too hefty: particularly for her and Harry. The three of them knew of her as Child of Lydian, of course, and her newborn powers. But they would never understand how she felt.

~*~

"Wondrously done, Miss Islet. The legends they've spun around you are entirely true."

Echidna whirled lightly, appreciating fully, for once, the additional vampire grace and strength. The lifeless body of the wizard she had hunted down fell away from her grasp, landing with a dull thud on the grimy floor, already forgotten, just another face in a crowd of prey. As her robes settled about her again, she took an unnoticed step back; shifting her balance for a better attack point.

"Then you know what I can do," she returned evenly, threading magic in her words, waiting for the intruder's eyes to blur and lid, for the tensed shoulders to relax, for him to be subject to whatever whims she might have. Echidna could feel anger coil within her; it was very, very rude to interrupt a vampiress when she was feeding.

He laughed amusedly, stepping closer so that the watery moonlight tossed beams carelessly across his features. It was a man, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, judging from the tiniest hint of white lining his temples. He had ageless good looks: Irish-green eyes that burned with intelligence and purpose, neatly kept dark hair, and a tall and board-shouldered stature. Those eyes were weighing heavily on Echidna at the moment, cool and unperturbed.

"You wouldn't expect me to approach an infamous vampiress unprotected, would you now, Miss Islet?" he asked without a hint of sarcasm, a small smile quirking at his lips. "You have got quite a reputation as a charmer, a songstress… and not to mention kisses that people would die to receive." All of these were delivered without the slightest hint of irony touching his tone or inflection of voice.

Echidna hissed, certain that he was mocking her: it was a low, sibilant sound, one that rose flutteringly from her throat and wound sensuously around the still night air. A screech owl stiffened from its perch in a damaged roof beam nearby, and winged away into the stars. If truly provoked, Echidna's hiss could half-deafen, a tamer version of a banshee's shriek.

"Who are you?" she shot at him, her words sheared and clipped, now; she could not risk someone shouldering in on her territory. At the very thought, her hands, which had been resting loosely by her side, balled into firsts, fingernails etching lines onto her palm. It was a taboo that outraged vampires the most.

"A true beauty," he murmured approvingly, still without scorn or disdain; Echidna hissed again: she felt like a pig on display. "I am sorry if I have offended you, Miss Islet," the stranger said, startled. "Forgive me, Miss, but I seem to have taken leave of all my manners: I am addressed as Ghealdan Jorj, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance."

He held out an open palm. Echidna jerked backwards, still jittery, and very wary, but he was merely waiting to kiss her hand. She weighed her chances; what could he do to her with a kiss on the back of her hand?

A smiled curled at her lips. The question was, what could she do to him with a kiss on the back of her hand? Without much ado, Echidna promptly slid her hand into his.

Ghealdan placed a light butterfly's kiss on her skin. As he was bent, back and neck precariously exposed, Echidna's other hand lashed out, fingernails unnaturally sharp: she made for his neck with a half-formed thought to snap it; it would be awkward drinking from him with a lolling neck, but there was no time for further chances or consideration.

Once her hand made contact with Ghealdan's flesh, she howled as blazing pain lanced through her, agony rippling down and up one arm. She snatched it away wildly, biting down hard on any other appearances of pain. Ghealdan still held her other hand in a loose grasp; she yanked that away as well. Only the one she had used to attack him was charred and blackened, skin still smoking gently; the other one that Ghealdan had clasped was unscarred and normal. She bit down so hard on her lower lip that she tasted the coppery tang of recycled blood; her last meal had left the blood still running hotly through her veins.

"What kind of… creature are you?" Echidna said in horror and fear—quivering fear—leaving her with an astringent, rough, sour taste on her tongue—or perhaps it was merely the blood. "You can touch me as you like, but I can't lay a finger on you without being burnt…"

As a response, Ghealdan Jorj reached under his robes, and in the twinkle of an eye drew out a cross the exact shade of his eyes.

Echidna's breath hitched in her throat, feeling a prickling sensation behind her eyes that threatened to break into tears. She was so frightened she was surprised she hadn't fainted. Rooted to the spot by pure, icy fear, harshly disgusted by the item Ghealdan so casually tossed up and down in one hand, Echidna was working very hard to suppress a scream.

~*~

The door slid open in a ragged whisper, neatly slicing off Hermione's train of thought. The figure that stood hesitantly at the threshold of their carriage was impressively silhouetted in a warm rectangle of light that flooded in from the main corridor. It fell across Ginny's face; the girl's nose twitched and she shifted in Harry's lap so that her face was buried in his robes.

He stepped in quickly, closing the carriage door quietly behind him. "I really hate that light," he explained to a bemused Hermione, "it's obscenely cheerful."

The silver moonlight suited him better, at any rate. Draco Malfoy had height enough to rival Ron's, and that was saying a lot since Ron towered over most of Hogwarts. Loose silver bangs fell with an offhand casualness into his face and eyes, catching at the celestial lighting so that they nearly glowed. Behind those bangs was a pair of gray eyes that scanned the carriage not at all hastily, and below those gray eyes were poised cheekbones and almost-girlish lips. Draco's beauty was androgynous, a compelling mix of ice and fire, accentuated by a sort of inner stillness only he possessed. Hermione studied him but fared no further on the mystery of his profile.

"Hermione," he acknowledged with an inclination of his head in her direction.

"You can come in if you want to," Hermione said comfortably. "They're all asleep, so keep your voice down."

"Oh—they're all sleeping, then?" Draco's expression never altered, but his eyes softened slightly, the silverish, liquid depths of them stirred by disappointment. "I actually wanted a word with Harry, but as he seems rather contented right now—" he sent an amused look with Hermione, who smiled in return.

"D'you have a message you want to pass on to him?"

"No, it's alright." He stepped in anyway, carefully avoiding from treading on Ron's robes, and seated himself next to Hermione. Cloaked by thankful darkness, Hermione shifted imperceptibly so as to examine the boy next to her. It was still an unsolved riddle why his jeering and caustic comments had ceased after his fifth summer home. It was as if he'd seen something so horrendous and disgusting that he couldn't bring himself to waste time doing so. She didn't have an inkling of what happened, yet they'd all noticed his change—he was more still, more profound, not quiet, but more reflective.

Hermione found herself working twice as hard to maintain her position as top of the level; she scraped past Draco with only a mere handful of marks at times, particularly in Charms and Transfiguration. Draco was just that Slytherin in Potions now, an acquaintance she never sought out, but was friendly with. It resembled her friendship with Hannah Abbott, the Slytherin seventh-year. She could recall a few fiery debates with Draco in class when they both got riled enough, debates that went on even after the bell had rung. Draco had never lost the charisma, the way he had with girls, but he was certainly more subdued.

She scrutinized him for a mere handful of seconds before she felt his eyes weighing heavily on her. He'd abandoned all pretense with her now, steel eyes filled with intensity she found unsettling.

"You want to know, don't you?" he asked softly.

The question hung in the air like dangled poisoned candy and melded itself into the tentative silence. Caught like a deer in headlamps, Hermione's tongue seemed glued to the roof of her mouth, but she jerked her head once.

"I can't tell you," Draco said calmly.

A tongue of exasperation wavered in Hermione. Why did he ask if he had no intention to enlighten her?

"But," he added tantalizingly. "I can show you."

Movements languid and fluid, he withdrew his wand and sketched a luminous symbol in the air before them, murmuring spell words under his breath too low for Hermione to catch. She was not trying to listen, however; the moment his wand made contact with the first line of the symbol, Hermione could sense the disturbance in the Ether: Draco was pulling at its threads, tugging hard; something had to give, to snap—

The symbol sprang to life, melting into a dim rectangle, not unlike a Muggle television. Hermione started and lost her momentary connection to the Ether, yet she had no time to muse upon its oddity as the screen began to play a scene from Draco's memory. Beside her, she could feel the Slytherin tense.

~*~

"The—Killamery—Cross." It was spat out like a repulsive swear word. Echidna swiped at a bead of sweat that hovered on her brow and frantically shifted her gaze to meet with Ghealdan Jorj's; just looking at the Cross sapped her relentlessly. But the image of the Cross burned itself savagely into her mind. It was made of roughly hewn greystone and colored Irish green, and wreathed in marigolds and triquetras. There was a protruding marble in the heart of the Cross, and there were two entwined serpents on the left and right shafts. The topmost serpents on the left and right shafts had their tails clasped together as if in welcome; the bottommost serpents replicated the carving.

But most importantly she knew it as vampire's blight; Echidna's own mother had spoken matter-of-factly that nearly every vampire who came across the Killamery Cross would come face-to-face with death.

Ghealdan smiled courteously. "Yes, indeed, Miss Islet: I applaud your knowledge. And listen to the words I speak clear: you belong to me now."

Abruptly Echidna felt a collar close around her neck, drawn so forcefully it was a struggle for every breath; snarling she clawed at the invisible choker, yet her fingers met with an unseen resistance two inches from her neck. She took a step back, but Ghealdan's arm jolted backwards as if twitching a leash: she either had to give in to his command and draw up closer to him than was comfortable, or risk a snapped neck.

"What is this?" She gave a strangled gasp as the collar tightened; she wrenched at it, but it made no difference for all her efforts. "Set me free!"

"I apologize for your shock, but it had to be done quickly. You see, once a vampire lays eyes on the Killamery Cross, he or she is bound to me after I speak the words. There is actually no need for the collar. Your will is mine, Miss Islet, as are your future actions. The collar is merely a taster of things to come. You will learn to restrain yourself from hurting me through the means of a weapon or another person." Ghealdan's smile turned almost sympathetic. "Besides, you cannot touch me against my wishes while I wear this." He lifted the Cross so that it was suspended before Echidna's eyes.

Her eyes flamed as she spat at him; this was barbaric! Insane, mad, and absolutely pointless; why would anyone want a vampiress as a pet, much less Echidna? She came from a long line of revered vampires: this was a hideous outrage she could not bear! Collared and leashed like an uncontrollable beast, and idiotically tricked so that she was paralyzed by the Cross! Once she got free—it wasn't an option; it was a must!—she would make the man scream long and loud… she'd break every bone in his body with her bare hands alone if she must… she would rip off strips of his skin and feed them to the werewolves… she would feed on him alive and aware… she would wring every drop of blood out of his body… but whatever it took, Echidna Islet swore that Ghealdan Jorj would die!

She scrabbled for the whip she had concealed under her robes with a full mind to slay him then and there, to slaughter him like a pig, like the way he treated her. Ghealdan merely shook his head sadly. "Echidna, Echidna, Echidna. When will you learn?"

Her fingers closed about the handle of the whip; she drew it out, delighted at the feel of the handle in her hand. Within moments, a second shriek tore its way out of her throat. Before she could even drop into battle stance, the whip exploded into a firework of emerald flames, flames that ate up the weapon in one heartbeat; the lash was reduced to bone-white ashes that drifted lazily to the ground.

Echidna flared in grief, humiliation and anger. "So I am not allowed to handle my own weapons! That was the last thing my mother left me, you unworthy animal!"

"Oh, dear," Ghealdan murmured. "Lass, you must learn that you are mine now. You are mine now."

~*~

"Lucius, this is ridiculous!"

Narcissa Malfoy prowled the bedroom restlessly, pacing in short, quick, angered steps, flaxen hair fanning behind her with every turn she made.

"An initiation for Draco? He's fifteen! He needs to meet girls, maybe get settled, before you start dragging him into Death Eater meetings. He needs a childhood, Lucius, or at least normal teenage years. I can't take it any longer!"

She twisted, blue eyes fixed accusingly on her husband. He sat silently on the bed, robed already in full dress though it was only seven in the morning, gray eyes coolly on hers. There was an awkward silence, Narcissa glaring furiously at Lucius, Lucius looking gamely back as if this was nothing more than a conversation about the weather. Truthfully, their conversations had never gone beyond the weather anyway. Their marriage had been one hundred percent business and they both knew it.

"No one told you to 'take' or endure anything."

She pushed her shoulders back and straightened, looking appraisingly down at Lucius, lips pursed. A tiny tremor of hope registered in her mind, but she didn't dare let it swell to any more than a tremor. "What on earth are you talking about, Lucius?"

"I do not lack many things, Narcissa," Lucius said calmly. "I do not lack influence, I do not lack money, I do not lack women. You can divorce me for all I care; I will just find someone else to take your place as Lady of the Manor. What I do lack, Narcissa, is a heir for the Dark Lord. The son you borne—Draco—I am not pleased with what he has done in Hogwarts. He has never progressed beyond mere teasing or threatening. The Lord thinks that Draco is too soft and incompetent for the sights he has to unveil to him. If you leave me, Narcissa, and take Draco away from his initiation, he will no longer be the heir of the Dark Lord."

"Are you serious?" Narcissa whispered in almost giddying euphoria.

"Certainly," Lucius drawled offhandedly.

"Thank the gods," Narcissa breathed, spinning and dashing towards the door. She was already formulating plans about where to run to, where to live, how she would bring Draco up properly—

She was already twisting the knob on the door when Lucius's amused voice spoke up again.

"When I said you could leave, Narcissa, I meant in tatters and pieces so unrecognizable that your precious son wouldn't know you save for that frilly frock you're wearing at the moment."

~*~

"Bastard," Hermione hissed, shaking uncontrollably with rage. "D'you know what he tried to do to me when I was sixteen…" She seemed to choke on the words; her hands balled into fists, but she said nothing more.

"I know," Draco said grimly. "I was there."

"How'd you see this anyway?" Logical queries swam through the blur of the tears in Hermione's eyes, blunting the disgust of the memory that was still razor-sharp in her mind. "You couldn't have been there…"

"…or I would have stopped him," Draco finished heavily. "Iolaus Malfoy, a distant ancestor of mine and a portrait in Malfoy Manor, alerted me of the incident after he heard from the banshee portrait in the room. He agreed to link me to the Manor after I left home."

He whirled his wand at the screen; it muted to a dullness that was nearly eaten up by the silver-streaked darkness, but then sparked to life once more. It was the same bedroom, though drastically changed, and from the way the sunlight fell into the room, some time had already elapsed.

~*~

"Mother?"

Fifteen-year-old Draco Malfoy entered the room, calling out but not expecting a reply. The bloodstained walls and furniture told him wordlessly much more than his mother ever would. Lightly he knelt and drew a finger over one particularly gory jet of blood scattered on the carpet; it was still vaguely warm. The entire bedroom smelled coppery, a sharp tang he never managed to get off the robes he was wearing then.

His mother lay with chilling stillness on the couch. It was the motionlessness that told Draco what he fought so hard to disagree with, that Narcissa Malfoy was no longer alive. She had always been restless, never sitting quietly, always fidgeting or playing with something in her hands, flitting from room to room in the Manor. She had liked creating things while she talked; sitting at her easel painting, perhaps, maybe sewing, or embroidering one of the many gowns she owned.

Inexplicable serenity settled over Draco as he crossed the room to Narcissa. Her blue eyes were wide and staring, expressionless, set in a mask of excruciating pain and pallid whiteness. Her hair was spread out like a golden sunburst, a perverse halo atop an angel of death. He touched her cheek, felt the iciness and knew for certain that Narcissa Malfoy—the only person in the world who still treated him like who he really was—was dead.

"She died for you."

He flinched at every unconcerned word, but gathered himself and kissed Narcissa's pale brow and drew his hand over the blankly gazing eyes, closing them forever, and then conjured a lavender blanket—her favorite scent and color—to drape over her body. Draco refused to look at the missing chunks that had been gouged out of her body.

"You," he said calmly, wheeling around to face his father, "had no right to do that."

"I have the right to do what I want," Lucius said. The draperies at the floor-to-ceiling windows had been thrown apart, revealing vivid midafternoon sunlight, and he was standing at them, looking out at the vast expanse of land the Malfoys owned. The sunbeams lightened his hair from pale gold to a shade that was only a bit off from Draco's silver. The gray eyes flicked from their inspection of the grounds to Draco, and in that moment, the boy was all too aware how much he resembled his father.

"She fought hard. It took me a long time to subdue her… to silence her."

Draco didn't move, didn't speak, stoutly refusing to acknowledge the existence of the murderer that spoke so casually of his wife's death. His eyes never faltered, locking onto Lucius's own.

"Are you thinking about my death, boy?"

"Yes. And how I would bring it about."

Lucius laughed dryly, black humor taking hold of him momentarily. He turned away from the windows and swept towards Draco, outstretched hand taking the Slytherin's chin and tilting it up harshly. "You are truly your father's son," he said with a rueful smile. "But if you choose to avenge your mother, you will be finding more than my death… have you ever thought about yours?"

~*~

Hermione's parents had died the same way, one night after she returned from her Muggle friend Jodie's house. She never found the murderer, much less confronted him, and the worst thing was, she never had time to mourn—or even attend their funeral! She poured all energies into the war, Hermione continued, her voice faltering slightly. Her mother had been pregnant; there had been only two months left before there would be a new baby brother. Draco had spoken to comment, to comfort awkwardly, to share a bit about Narcissa, but mostly he was listening. She wasn't sure if she'd sobbed fitfully or didn't shed a single tear, but she did remember talking herself to sleep.

And as the occupants of that carriage slept, an owl thrust its beak through the opening they had left in the window. It was completely out of the ordinary—massive, fierce, lushly green-eyed and feral-looking, with sleek steel feathers and claws that glinted even in the watery moonlight.

The owl stepped neatly to Hermione, avoiding Ron's crumpled form, and hoisted up a leg to let the rolled-up note fall onto her splayed robes. The note seemed to be made of a thick, expensive, creamy sort of parchment, and twined around it was a slender Irish-green ribbon.

As soon as the owl deposited the letter, its once-green eyes gleamed a shocking golden as if a spell was being lifted. Screaming, in a flurry of feathers and talons, it raked claws against the glass pane, shattering it, spraying jagged glass shards onto the fertile green fields flickering past. The owl lurched unsteadily out the window, giving a primal, untamed howl, and dropped a few feet before rising urgently into the air, as if propelled by terror of an unknown magic which had it in its control.

Its entire arrival and departure was deathly silent, as if its passage was masked by magic.


*passes out random chocolates to reviewers* Arigatou to...

Mari -- *gets kicked in the bum* Since I couldn't spew out 11 pages of work in an instant... guess I deserved that... BUT NO MORE HERSHEY'S KISSES FOR YOU, MISSY! =P Seriously, girl, thanks for the review.

Vadblakin' Kow [aka G3] -- It's really flattering for such a review from an RL friend... thankies! *hugs*

Felicity -- *laughs* More for you here =)

Tenebrae [aka Nicole] -- Yeash Nic, the concept of it, although I certainly had many inspirations from other works, music, and of course friends... ;) I created the Shades of my own accord, yet look out for the OC characters that will be coming up... their names all have references to Greek myths and legends and even moons from other planets, lol. ^^ You can't say I didn't do my research on this one! Anyway, dearie, excuse my rambling; thank you for your review! *huggles* *picks up the eyes and passes them back to Nic*

Cous-cous -- I'm afraid I might not have explanations that soon yet, but they will unfold as the story goes on... that is if my muse permits me to. *stares at muse threateningly* At any rate, thank you for reading! =)

Spazy-Sange -- EEEKS! *runs away from Spazy and burrows in the Shadows of Lurk* I updated! Now keep those chains! =P Thanks for your review.

So! If you've found your way down here I assume you've read the story? Ergo, review! *brandishes half-eaten marshmellow scythe*